Westie Can Drum

Three o' three, the seconds they are sequins
And the minute string, raveled 'round the mannequin
Of formless space, a party line at last that we can
All embrace — and segue to the burning masses!
Ten to eleven, don’t question, just get in
I think that we are losing a way
Westie… You cannot drum!
Half past noon, visualize a centaur baying
At the moon, his profile is a silver circle
Brings to mind the portraits on the coinages and
Lincoln’s beard, and why’s he got a horse’s body?
(Griffin, a cruiser)
You’ll love her, you’ll lose her
I think that we are losing our way
Westie… You cannot drum!
Five-nineteen deluded like a Dixie-Crat
I don’t ya
Clog latrine, and clean it like a Dixie-Crat
And deck the halls with spirulina
Dry route to Devon
So great, like Heaven
I think that we are losing a way
Westie… You cannot drum!
No, Westie… You cannot drum!